


per aspera ad astra

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Porn, Porn Battle VII, Post-Apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-13
Updated: 2009-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt so natural, maybe <i>too</i> natural, for him open up to Sylar in ways that his past self would have abhorred. But the past was dried paint underneath their fingernails and murals faded beyond apocalyptic recognition while the future lay sheathed in rubble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	per aspera ad astra

**Author's Note:**

> Written a waaay long time ago for Porn Battle VII for the prompts _static_ and _equal_. I love me post-apocalyptic porny scenarios like whoa.

**per aspera ad astra / through hardships to the stars**

  
Peter’s learned to appreciate the agonizingly slow pace Sylar is taking, gently rocking into him, because he’s learned how to adapt, evolve, _survive_ , no matter the circumstances. Sylar’s fingers keep digging into into hips, trying to push him to the mattress, make him buckle under the weight and pressure until his orgasm would pump through them both, but Peter holds steady. Sylar forgets how heavy the yoke of responsibility is— _was_ — on his shoulders, how billions of lives outweighed anything he could ever deliver.

Peter can’t remember what it was like before he had the benefits of invincibility, the gift of flight, of enhanced sights and sounds, the power to erase and restore memories, to wield the elements. Yet all the abilities and gifts that his genes or God would let him absorb never made a difference. He could see and hail from the future, jump into the past, only to screw up the present. His life was an endless cascade of failure, peppered by victories that never lasted longer than the flavor of chewing gum. He’d grown tired of running, hiding, fighting against against everyone he ever thought was supposed to be good. Lies and suspicion weren’t an issue around Sylar, not anymore, not after the number of lives that were lost to even bigger megalomaniacs like his family, to shadow corporations and the military-industrial complex; to humanity itself. Sylar understood the all lies and manipulation on such an intrinsic level that after Peter lost his friends and family, lovers—all who stung him in turn when they still breathed—Sylar was there and he knew exactly how to navigate past the hurt of betrayal and loss to make him feel alive again. It felt so natural, maybe _too_ natural, for him open up to Sylar in ways that his past self would have abhorred. But the past was dried paint underneath their fingernails and murals faded beyond apocalyptic recognition while the future lays sheathed in rubble. It’s the present, the equally scarred and deeply disturbed Sylar still wedged deep inside him that Peter cares about.

He arches ever-so-slightly in anticipation when Sylar’s fingers slide along his pelvic bone, full of implicit promises. They were hands that used to wield such furor and animosity towards him, but no longer did they terrify Peter. Careful, coaxing fingers wrap themselves around his base, tightening slowly, and Peter steels himself against the impending friction. Now he feels safe, _at home_ in Sylar’s capable hands, in a world that has nothing left to offer. Peter wants to hold onto this moment forever where Sylar’s matted chest hair scrapes along his back and hand moves along him at just the right pace.

There’s pressure on his thigh from Sylar’s other hand and Peter lets go of the headboard, burying his hands in the pillow as Sylar simultaneously pulls on him and thrusts into him in rapid-fire succession, haphazardly, dismantling him piece by piece. Peter moans and collapses to his elbows and Sylar’s hands reach to twine into his fingers before taking a moment to kiss his jaw, feather-light and an absolute contrast to the pounding that forces the breath from Peter’s lungs.

Without warning Sylar pulls out of him, and already missing the heat and pressure, Peter sits up and turns and meets Sylar in a kiss, throwing his weight into him so quickly that they almost fall backwards into the twisted sheets.

Sylar laughs and manages to free himself from Peter’s insistent lips long enough to arrange the pillows and rumpled sheets against the headboard that he reclines into, spreading his legs invitingly, still flush with wont. Peter crawls into his space, edging arms and legs out of the way and carefully eases himself onto Sylar’s hardness, groaning, trying to relax enough to accommodate Sylar’s length. Peter barely has chance to begin moving and Sylar already has him in his hand, pumping him hard and bringing him over. Peter grasps onto the headboard, bucking into Sylar’s hand and he exhales into Sylar’s open mouth while the tension uncoils in milky layers between them. When he finally stills, they sit upright for minutes and his arms fall to encircle Sylar’s neck. Peter kisses him slowly, working his mouth open again and when he pulls away, the inkling of a smile is sitting there on Sylar’s face, tugging at the corner’s of his mouth. Sylar’s hand slides up Peter’s thigh and rests firmly on the small of his back while the other brushes the hair from his face and watches him, making Peter feel like he’s being read like an open book.

Peter swallows, hyper conscious of the stickiness and pressure against sensitive length, but it was a welcomed sensation and not uncomfortable like all the time they’d spent fighting each other, boxing with gloves of altruism and selfishness. Sylar runs his thumb over Peter’s lower lip and sighs, causing Peter’s chest to tighten. Peter reaches for Sylar’s hand and begins to rock his hips and all the pain of the discarded past and uncertain future eventually gives way to the sound of Sylar whimpering his name into the hollow of his throat when he finally jerks his hips, filling Peter with what lies beyond the ruins of timelines.  



End file.
